


Five Finger Discount

by Nimravidae



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Escorts, Daddy Kink, Lingerie, Lots and lots of sex, M/M, Minor Additional Relationships, Size Difference, Size Kink, Sugar Daddy Washington, Tiny Laf, Tiny Lafayette, petty larceny, thieves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 17:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14359968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/pseuds/Nimravidae
Summary: Gilbert du Motier is young and desperate, cut off and broke he mixes the pleasures of escort work and petty thievery to pay his way. George is alone, wealthy, and looking to pay for a night of companionship. Each gets more than what they bargain for when fate demands their paths cross. Oh, and when Gilbert steals his wallet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Time to flex the ol' Washette muscles! 
> 
> This is dedicated to [oohlalafayette](https://twitter.com/oohlalafayette) on twitter, who draws the most amazing Washette ever, and who I have the pleasure of discussing Tiny Laf with!

George has been told, by a number of people, a number of times, that he has a type. He likes to push back against that, roll his eyes and point out that it categorically is not true. It isn’t just the small ones, though George can’t lie, were you to line up his involvement history a distinct trend would be noticed. Alexander, his assistant-and-sometimes-lover, short, slender. Benjamin, the young man whose love runs a clean three-hundred-a-night, lean with a constant yielding bow to his head. 

To see them beside one another, to see Martha standing beside them, his ex-wife though neither of them ever confessed any attraction of any sort, crafts a particular narrative in line with George’s tastes. He doesn’t go looking for them, he likes to think. He likes to think he’s of more of an open-minded variety, more welcoming to try something new. Which is why he was here, precisely.

The bar is hazy, thick with a kind of presumption that settles heavier than smoke. George has never particularly been a fan of it, but it's the sort of place he goes to find what he’s looking for. More upscale than a street corner, but not quite the greasy underbelly that is dating. A bit of a middle ground, where he can share a drink and take someone back up to a room, pretend for a few hours that he doesn’t spend his nights with a class of well-aged scotch and only his work email to share it with. 

Alex was at a conference in Jersey and Benjamin is booked solid, apparently, for the next week. Not that George is surprised, fair rates, if lower than George personally thinks they should be, paired with a fine body, made to contort into beautiful shapes, meant he was a well-sought commodity. 

He had been apologetic on the phone, but only so much that George could tell he was still jotting down in that sweet little planner of his all his upcoming dates, when to shave, when to steal away to the gym, all the things he told George he had to factor in one evening.

So, there was only one place for him to be, a musty sort of hotel bar that reminded him far too much of smokey clubs with long couches and lounge singers from old movies his mother used to watch. 

It only seemed natural, perhaps, that with George’s mind already taken up by his two favored young men, his gaze would be drawn towards the most slender and delicate beauty in the room. 

And he finds it, standing between a wall and a table, in the sort of dark corner where you only see him once you’re certain that he is who you’re looking for. Young, with a definite point in his chin and a regal slope of his nose, he was sharp edges and cut lines wrapped in a button-down. His hair is too long, but it’s tied back low and loose against his neck, making George’s fingers ache to know what it feels like to grab it and pull. He barely looked old enough to be holding the glass his lissome fingers wrap around. 

Sherry, George assumes from the tulip glass as he watches, feet already moving him towards the bar.

The man holds himself in quite a way, eyes casting about, catching on a person before drifting, lazily away. 

It’s a particular look in ones eyes, the kind of searching and scanning that only suggests one singular type of intent.

And George knows what this man is looking for. 

Across the room, the stranger finishes his glass, in perfect time to when George plucks the one he asked for from the bar and closes out, already certain of this nights trajectory. His own scotch in his right hand, this beautiful creatures’ sherry in the other, he moves. 

It’s a particular sort of dance, one that George has done time and time again, working over his opening lines and his remarks as if he’s addressing a room full of investors instead of just a man lingering at the edge of a hotel bar. 

They only make eye contact when George is but a few steps beyond conversation. He’s caught in the cloud of someone else's chatter when the beauty catches his eye, brow furrowing for a moment before he glances back over his shoulder. Wondering, perhaps, if George is really going to approach him.

He raises the glass at him, a prelude to the point where he finally lands at his feet. “I saw you from the bar. I hope you don’t mind.”

Brow un-knitting and instead raising, the man takes the offered glass and raises it to his lips.

“I do not mind that you saw me,” he says, in a lilting and striking accent that alerts George to his first mistake. His nose crinkles at the drink, and the man sets it down politely. “Though I must apologize to you, I do not drink sherry.”

“Spanish swill? My mistake,” he gestures to the glass that had been drunk. “I saw your glass and made assumptions.”

“ _ Pineau _ , though I must admit I was surprised to find it in an American bar.”

“Would you like me to exchange this for something you would prefer, or shall we just get to why I came over here?” 

The man glances over at him then scans the crowd again. “I think we should speak, then.” 

George shifts, moving so that they can whisper together better. “Would it be too forward of me to assume you are... working?” 

There's a spark of something mirthful in those sharp eyes. “One could say,  _ oui. _ ” 

George sucks in a deep breath, leaning closer, until his elbow is on the worn wall beside this strangers head. “So, I’ll assume you have a hotel room here, somewhere private to discuss this?”

“Do you not wish to finish your scotch,” a glance to the abandoned drink, “and your sherry?”

“Not if it offends you.” Besides, his ice cube was already melting too quickly, watering it down in unpalatable ways. 

The stranger laughs, a bell-like kind of chime that makes George want in the kinds of ways that aren’t necessarily familiar. “Gilbert, and it does not offend me.”

“Actually, it’s George, but close.”

The smile reaches his lips this time, curving over perfect-pink lips. “My name is Gilbert, drink, if you wish. I have a room upstairs, though, if your pretense has gone far enough?”

“I do think it has.” He sets his own down, and watches as Gilbert gives a final scan over the room and walks back towards the elevators, narrow hips swaying softly. He takes one last burning swig, and follows. 

They catch up at the silver doors, the up button already glowing softly. “I could’ve missed you.”

“But you did not.” 

George feels himself smile as his hand finds the small of the young man's back. “I assume we’ll get into specifics once we’re in your room?”

“It’s four hundred for the night,” Gilbert’s head barely turns, and he steps away from George’s hand as he glides into the elevator, leaving George to follow. “But for five hundred, you may handle me without restriction.”

George waits for the door to slide shut to respond. “Without restriction?”

“For five hundred you could beat me, and I would not care.”

“Well, I’ll pay five hundred, but I can’t say I plan on beating you.” He glances over, up and down that narrow frame. “Five hundred’s fine. Cash?”

“On the dresser while I shower.” 

They reach the floor quickly, a soft ding the only sound before Gilbert starts walking, sparing hardly a glance over his shoulder towards George to make sure he follows. 

He touches Gilbert again outside his door, hands brushing against his sides, over his shoulders and down his arms. 

He likes to think it’s not just because Gilbert is small that he’s willing to drop half a grand to sleep with him. He seems warm, under his nice pants and well-cut shirt. Georges hands cinch his waist, bringing him back just a little when the door clicks open. And Gilbert responds just the way an escort should, ass pressing against Georges crotch, spine arching so he can peer up at him.

His fingers creep around, feeling his stomach up to his ribs. “Are you going to let me in?” 

“I do not know, are you going to allow me to move?” 

George huffs a chuckle and lets him go. The interior of the room is just like every other one. The same off-cream carpeting and the same California king piled high with pillows. There's a table stuffed in the corner, a few sort of papers and cards dotted around a closed MacBook. That George is less accustomed to. Typically, there's not even a hint that his rented lover having previously stepped into the room at all before finding a customer. But it looks like Gilbert has been here for a while. 

There’s no bags, no suitcase open, which means it couldn’t have been days--but the empty coffee cup on the dresser suggests it had least been a few hours. George doesn’t want to pry or snoop, as Gilbert shimmies his way through the doorway, where the carpeting breaks for tile. He hovers, for a moment, “Do you mind? I much prefer to be clean for my clients, and I am sure they prefer me clean as well. I do not charge you time until we begin.”

George gestures towards the bathroom, “I don’t mind at all.” 

Though, honestly, Gilbert’s smile afterwards, this gentle little tug at the edge of his lips, makes George’s stomach twist into knots. “I will return to you, do not fret.” And he vanishes, slipping around the corner. 

The door clicks shut, and George sits neatly on the edge of the bed, double-checking he has his wallet.

He’s got enough of a predisposition towards setting it somewhere and forgetting that it’s habit to triple-check. And while he was fairly lucky that Benjamin didn’t mind waiting the one time George had forgotten it at the downstairs bar, he would very much not like a repeat of the event. He finds it, thankfully, this time though and peels the cash out of his clip, enough for both the cost of the night and a tip. He leaves it on the dresser, beside what looks like a very expensive watch piled on with a few rings and a leather wallet.

His brow furrows at that as he fans out the cash (trying to make it at least a little easier to count quickly). It must take a remarkable amount of trust in humanity to just leave your wallet there, George muses, looking at the closed door and musing on the man behind it. Maybe he is young, fresh to this game.

He’s certainly new to America, maybe he’s new to this as well. George sits back down, loosening his tie, leaving his watch on the nightstand, and watching the doorway with interest as the sound of the shower cuts out. 

It’s a few seconds before the door creaks open again. 

Gilbert’s hair is loose around his neck when he steps out, towel wrapped around his waist. 

“Oh.” George can’t help but sound disappointed, his lips pitching down into a frown. Gilbert’s face immediately falls, his big eyes getting somehow bigger.

“Is something wrong?” He looks down at himself and George stands, drawn towards him like moths and flames. 

“No-no,” he insists, as Gilbert shrinks back a moment. “I just was looking forward to undressing you myself.”

Gilbert matches Georges frown from before. “Oh. I can dress again for you, if you wish. I only though then, I can more easily do this.” And his hand raises, towel pooling down around his feet and oh.

Oh. His legs are longer than George had previously thought, going on seemingly endlessly until they find the sharp ridge of his hip bones. Clothed, Gilbert is the kind of sight that George doesn’t think he’ll ever tear his eyes away from, nude, its worse. The desire, the want, the  _ need  _ to touch and take and claim is overwhelming, surging and burning in his blood. 

He wants to grab and feel and know every single inch of this body. 

“You protest less now,” Gilbert says, voice pitched low and heavy. “Good, then?” 

“Very,” George growls, hands snapping to the boys hips. He spins them around easily, guiding back towards the bed. His skin is hot, electric under Georges fingers as he heaves him up to throw him backwards onto the mattress. He bounces when he lands, but recovers quick enough, scooting backwards and sitting up more while George works on his shirt. “I’m glad,” he purrs, running his fingers over George’s tie before giving it a little tug, neck craning up.

“Do you kiss?” He only waits for the nod and the second tug to his tie before he hunches over, letting Gilbert push up and seal their lips together. 

He kisses like he touches, insistent and needy, pushing up against him. George tries to focus on both that and his shirt, but he only gets halfway down before he gives up, and grabs Gilbert’s face instead. He kisses him harder, chasing the buzz of need that builds in his chest when Gilbert sighs into the embrace. 

George makes a noise back, low and rumbling in his throat as he nudges Gilbert back and back until he can get a knee on the bed. At the first flick of his tongue, Gilbert yields, and George tastes the underlying sweetness of his fortified wine, the sharpness of the alcohol barely registering as George kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. Gilberts legs spread, letting George slot between them as they shift backwards together. 

On instinct, he grinds down against him, forgetting he’s almost entirely dressed still. He only got as far as a half-unbuttoned shirt and loose tie--he tears himself away and fights the urge to kiss Gilbert again, bracing his hands on either side of him instead. 

He looks down at the body spread and bared beneath him, drinking it in as he levels out his breathing. Gilbert is thin, sculpted and willowy at the same time. His hair spreads out around his head, lips kiss-swollen and shining. There’s the start of a flush dusting over his cheeks, and smatterings of freckles over his chest and down his limbs and George has the strongest urge to find them all and map them out like he’s trying to navigate by them.

“Gorgeous,” he mutters, shifting his weight and dragging his hand slowly from Gilbert’s chest down to the sparse trail of hair at his navel. Gilbert pushes his head back, back arching as he exposes that elegant throat. 

George drops to his elbow before he can stop himself, pushing his kiss-slick lips against Gilbert’s neck. He clips it once, then twice with his teeth, listening to the soft, musical little gasps that Gilbert makes each time, feeling the way his muscles clench under his hand. 

“I won’t,” George mutters, mainly to convince himself not to, pushing his nose up against Gilbert’s pulse-point. “I won’t.”

“You can,” Gilbert responds, half-breathless as those lithe fingers find their way to George’s back, digging into the muscle of his shoulders. “You paid for no restraint.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t have any, Gil,” He tells the warm skin at his mouth.

“Gil,” he hums, the gripping turning to softer stroking, as he slides his knee along George’s hip. “Do you nickname all your whores?”

Huffing a chuckle, George pushes himself back up again, taking his hand back to make it easier. “Only the pretty ones. Will you help me get this off?”

“But of course.” He works on finishing up George’s shirt, pushing it off his shoulders while George strips off his belt, throwing it aside and going for his fly. It’s a struggle, once George remembers that he’s still wearing his shoes. But they get there, George down to nothing and Gilbert’s hands roving with abandon. He kisses him again, slower, this time, less rushed. 

Gilbert’s fingers walk down George’s chest, nails dragging light enough to draw shivers over his spine. “The table,” he says, running a thumb over George’s nipple. 

It takes a second to register what he means, George is too blissed out by the hands, by the gentle touch on his chest. He grunts, a little later, in recognition of what Gilbert means and peels open the eyes he didn’t realize had drifted shut in search of the lube and condoms. He scoops them both and leaves them nearby, stooping down to drop kisses on his collar and chest. 

He knows what he wants to do, it’s not typically something he does when he’s paying, but Gilbert just showered and, well, George wants a taste of him. Wants his money’s worth of what he wants. “You say no restrains, but I’d assume that’s conditional.”

“No barebacking, and I would appreciate not being murdered.”

“And what if I want to eat your ass?”

“Ah.” It’s a surprised little noise, as George noses along the dip of Gilbert’s ribcage. He kisses while Gilbert doesn’t speak. Eventually, there’s a small, “I would very much enjoy that, I think I can permit it.” 

“Your generosity is magnanimous,” he teases, nipping at his stomach. “I just can’t help myself. You’re so gorgeous, Gilbert. You’re,” a pause, as he sinks lower, breath ghosting over Gilbert’s cock, hard and flushed already, “just so goddamn beautiful.” He kisses the shaft, gentle and sweet, before delving lower once more, hands sliding over those slender legs and pressing them farther apart and back. They move without resistance, bending almost impossibly far.

To save themselves both a little dignity, George doesn’t just dive straight for his hole. Instead, he kisses the backs of Gilbert’s thighs, he strokes down his perineum, dragging his index finger over that pretty little hole. “I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, low and intense and not entirely for Gilbert to hear as he pushes the tip of his finger into him, feeling the tight heat ensnare him for just a moment. 

“George,” Gilbert breathes, and George looks up to him. His eyes are massive, pupils blown and fixated down where George is hunched between his legs. George doesn’t look way, doesn’t break eye-contact as he leans in and drags his tongue around his finger. He tastes like skin and soap, but George doesn’t care. The way Gilbert’s eyes slide shut and the way his voice trembles out a sigh makes everything worth it. The ache in his neck from the angle, the way his back is protesting this position--it’s worth it, when Gilbert whines as George laps at him again, this time sliding his finger out and giving this hole his full attention.

He spends a few more minutes working him with just his tongue, licking turning to a pointed tip toying with his rim until he pushes in. Gilbert, if the noises he’s making and the writhing he’s doing means anything, is thoroughly enjoying it. He wriggles so much that George has to wrap a forearm around his hip to keep him still. Gilbert, of course, responds by digging his heel into George’s back and pressing his hips up again. 

“Needy,” he tells Gilbert’s ass, before he licks a finger and sinks it into him. He hooks it to open him more, letting him get his tongue deeper. He works him like this, slow and steady and deep, for a few more moments, despite the long whines and the pleads for him to go faster, harder. 

He licks Gilbert open up to two fingers before climbing back up his body, kissing the rise of his hip and the side of his waist before he grabs the lube to start working him open in earnest. 

It’s surprisingly difficult, but George is far too distracted by the marvel that is how tight he is that, he doesn’t bother putting too much thought into how an escort got to be that way. 

He just wants to get inside him. He stretches him out with his middle and ring fingers, index stroking the rim as he drinks Gilbert in. He’s much more expressive than other escorts and corner-whores that George has used. His eyes drift between squeezing shut and peering up under his lashes at George. His cheeks are stained dark, highlighting every freckle on his body. His hair isn’t splayed artfully over the pillows, it’s clumped and frizzed with the back and forth and back and forth of his head tossing. It’s not pretty but it’s gorgeous and George has exhausted every ounce of his patience. He slides his fingers out and tears the condom open with his teeth. He can’t get it on fast enough, can’t get Gilbert’s legs hitched up over his shoulders fast enough, he can’t get close enough, can’t enough skin on skin on skin.

Gilbert’s eyes pressed closed and he shutters out a beautiful noise when George slides into him.

He doesn’t move for a long time once he’s seated, all he does is press his face into the crook of Gilbert’s neck, breathing him in as Gilbert clings to him with all his limbs. Fingers tangle against his shoulders, fingers find the back of his neck, holding onto him.

He rolls his hips, starting slowly, pushing back into him faster and faster with each thrust, and Gilbert’s noises build and build with each one too, until he’s at high little gasps, intermingling with moans and whines and whimpers of  _ monsieur, please, yes fuck  _ that come with the creak of the bed beneath them.

He presses them together harder, letting each rock grind Gilbert’s cock against his stomach, letting him push back and up and back and up, each gasp a little more breathless and more like harsh, desperate panting. They’re so close that getting a hand between them to stroke Gilbert off is damn-near impossible, so he just keeps this up, this long, hard rocking together, again and again and again until Gilbert's cries reach a noted crescendo and he tenses into his orgasm, every inch of his body taut and clenching.

George keeps going, the twist of the body around him tearing a growl from his throat. Gilbert huffs and pants, his legs twitching with every little shiver of his body. He has to adjust slightly, moving Gilbert’s legs so he can lean over and drive into him again and again and again and again, chasing the growing buzz at the base of his spine, pushing into the lithe little body beneath him.

He fills the condom with a grunt, head falling forward as he rides out his orgasm with jerks of his hips and clenches of the fingers on the edge of narrow hips. 

For a long while, the room is filled with nothing but panting and beating hearts. Pulse by pulse, they even out, until George’s arms finally work enough to push himself upward and take Gilbert in again.

He looks ethereal, half-lidded eyes hazy and dull in post-orgasm bliss, the his sweat-slick skin catching the low light of the room. It makes him glow.

George strokes down the length of his cheekbone, something stoking again in his gut as Gilbert nuzzles into it, blinking more alertly up at him. “Hello,” he says, soft and wrecked.

“Hello.”

Normally, this would be the time in which George would strip the condom off his cock, re-dress, and depart with a terse farewell or plans for another meeting. But his hand cannot tear from Gilbert’s cheek, and he can’t stomach the idea of leaving him like this. His eyes flicker to the clock. Technically, he paid for the hour. Technically, he still has fifteen minutes left. 

He kisses the corner of Gilbert’s slack lips, a beat or two passing before he lazily turns his head, humming into the kiss. George lowers himself down slowly, landing beside him and letting Gilbert twist to face him. “You may shower here if you wish,” Gilbert says, quiet and soft as his hands stroke up George’s side. “The room is rented until tomorrow morning. I won’t make you pay if you stay.”

Tomorrow morning.

His bones ache with exhaustions, and really, he wants to. He doesn’t want to call a cab, doesn’t want to walk out the door, wait, sit out the long, silent drive. He wants to sit here, nose against Gilbert’s pulse until he falls asleep. Foolish as it is, he strokes Gilbert’s flank with the hand not cradling his cheek. “Do you want me to stay?”

He’s not sure what possess him to say it, but he does. Gilbert looks up at him, lips pitching down into a confused little frown. “Yes? I am sorry if I have given the impression I do not.”

George pets down his leg, hooking a hand under his knee and guiding it up to George’s own hip, wrapping them together. “Then I’ll stay. I did pay to do whatever I want to you, didn’t I?”

Maybe it’s the warm body in his arms, smelling like coconut and sweat and sex, or the way he can feel the steady beating of his heart and the rise and fall of his chest that draws the exhaustion through his body. He relaxes, muscle by muscle as he buries his nose in Gilbert’s hair and lets his eyes slide shut. 

He opens them again to an empty bed. He’s confused, for a few moments, as to why, the darkness of the room seeming more cavernous than ever. He scrubs a hand over his face, and rolls over to the other side of the bed, patting down the nightstand for his watch. 

And comes up empty-handed. His eyes open a little more warily, stomach sinking down to the bottom floor. 

It’s a mistake, it has to be a mistake. His back protests as he sits upright, grunting as his stiff muscles contort back into regular shapes. A mistake.

He checks the floor around it before looking back up. Every sign of Gilbert from the night before was gone. The accessories and cash on the dresser, the laptop, the wallet. It’s all vanished, gone. Something in his blood turns to icy slush, pulsating through and through. 

George grabs his pants off the floor, checking the pockets, then the floor, then his pockets again. 

“Oh you little minx,” he whispers to himself, annoyed at the awe that creeps into the edges of his voice. He finds his phone sitting neatly on the corner table, far from the pocket of his pants he left it in. On it, there’s a little folded piece of green. He’s fairly certain he’ll be finding neither his wallet, nor his watch in this hotel room.

He tosses his pants back on the bed and crosses the room. It’s a heart, folded gently out of a twenty dollar bill. Penned over the front of it, is a message. 

_ “With Love, Gil.”  _

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which George is pathetic, and everyone else knows that.

“I’m sorry, you got  _ what _ ?” His voice crackles over the receiver as Alex laughs so hard he snorts into the phone. “Jesus Christ, George.”

George, frowns thoroughly amused as he pins his phone to his shoulder buttoning his shirt. “Am I not still your boss?”

“You called me at two in the morning because you got robbed by a hooker, which, by the way, I don’t even know what you want me to do about this.” Judging by the amount of energy lacing his voice, George is fairly certain he didn’t wake Alex up. Which they will have a talk about later, but at the current moment, he mainly just wants to get home. “I can’t exactly call the cops,” Alex continues, “Because you do know that paying for sex is a crime still, right? I know it’s confusing, because you technically pay me and sleep with me, but it’s definitely still illegal to shell out the big bucks just to fuck some tramp.” 

George buckles his belt and switches shoulders once his neck starts to cramp up. “Are you done?”

A pause, a ruffle on the other end. “Yeah, I’m done. Call a Lyft or something, go home, cancel your credit cards in the morning. I have to present some bullshit at like nine in the morning because my boss didn’t want to go to Jersey to do it himself, can I go now?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, picking up the folded twenty again, flicking it over his fingers again and again. “Please do your best to not antagonize.”

“Always, oh shit, before I go--call that other escort, the nice one you bring to galas and dinner parties sometimes. Thin, kinda tall, drop-dead gorgeous? I would fuck him if he wasn’t so expensive?”

George pauses, his thumb sweeping over the lines of ink. “Why would I call Benjamin?”

“Call him and see if he knows your hooker.”

He rolls his eyes, pocketing the origami heart and shoving his feet into his shoes. “Good night, Alexander. Keep me updated on the conference.”

“Will do.” George hangs up before Alex can make another tawdry joke about his situation and opens the rideshare app. It’s late, but it’s only a few minutes for his car to arrive. 

He gives another cursory glance over the hotel room, convincing himself he’s still looking for his things. But his eyes are caught by the sheets, stained with sweat and come, the abandoned lube on the table, the strip of condoms, the towel in the middle of the floor. He can feel Gilbert, imprints of him the more he thinks about it. 

The ride home is long, the quiet lull of the drivers radio not enough to draw George’s thoughts away from the man who robbed him. 

He counts all the red flags that he ignored just because Gilbert was attractive, recalling each moment with perfect hindsight. The way his eyes scanned the room, George had assumed he was searching out a client, eyeing up men who looked like they were deep pockets on the prowl. He figures now it was more accurate that he was looking to see whos pockets would be easier to pick. 

Who was vulnerable, who had their guards down enough that he could slip the jewelry off him or the cash clips from their pockets. 

He thinks about it when the car pulls to a stop outside his building, he thinks about it as he stumbles, suddenly exhausted, up to his apartment and through to his bed. He doesn’t have the energy to kick off his shoes and undress, but the robotic muscle memory guides him through it anyway. The sweet and hurried sliding of this same fabric off this same skin from just a few hours ago is gone, barely a memory as he peels the clothes off his body and tosses them into his hamper. He lays down to the ghost of dainty hands brushing over his hips, a heavy French accent purring into his ear. 

He doesn’t know when he falls asleep, but when he does he dreams of sharp hip bones cutting the palms of his hands. 

When he wakes up, he has three alerts, one from each of his credit cards. 

_ Was this you?  _ It asks, dropping a pin at some grocery store from that morning. Another at a boutique whose name he doesn’t recognize but the salacious name and the amount spent leads him to believe it’s something rather uncouth. The third is some bodega by Nolita. He hovers his finger over the link saying  _ It Wasn’t Me  _ before clicking his phone off instead. 

He gets out of bed and calls Benjamin instead, getting his business voicemail instead, he leaves a brief messages, giving as little detail as humanly possible while also making it clear that he is not trying to make an appointment, and if Benjamin would please call him back at his earliest convenience, it would be very much appreciated. 

George isn’t exactly sure why he doesn’t just cancel his cards, cut off the little thief before he can max the cards out. He starts his coffee, telling himself that it would just be inconvenient to do so, especially if Ben knows the man. If Ben knows him they can have a civil discussion. No need for the authorities to be involved,especially when George gets the distinct impression that Gilbert’s status strikes him as...uncertain. 

It’s an easy-going morning, in the light of all that occurs. Alex sends him a brief and to-the-point summation of the conference, including contact information of people who requested it be forwarded, he starts sending some emails, finishes sending some emails. 

It’s around lunch time when he hears back from Ben, his phone buzzing up his contact. 

He explains the situations succinctly and to the point, ending on the pressing question. “We went by Gilbert, but I’m not sure if that’s real or not. I’m assuming the chances you’ve heard of him are slim?”

“Slim to none. And I would say we should have a conversation about picking up supposed escorts in bars, but I think you’ve learned your lesson.”

“My assistant has already chastised me enough regarding this, thank you, Benjamin. So you haven’t heard of him?”

There’s a pause as Ben sighs, making that noise low in his throat when he’s debating something. George is certainly used to hearing it whenever he takes Ben to dinner or drinks first, or makes Ben pick the position they begin in for the night. “The name could be fake, and the description you gave me is vague. He didn’t have anything special? Tattoos, scars, something he considered his specialty?”

“A thick French accent?” George pinches the bridge of his nose, already feeling the tension headache building behind his eyes. It strikes him belatedly, the origami in his pockets from the night before. “And he left a note.”

“A note?”

“On a bill folded in the shape of a heart.” 

On the other line, Ben heaves a bottomless sigh, and George picks up the sound of muttering from beside him, not loud enough for George to know if it’s from the boyfriend he’s mentioned in passing during idle post-sex conversation or from some unfortunate client. “I would say he’s not in the business, a professional maybe, but a professional thief. Why do you even want to find him?”

He hesitates in a way he didn’t with Alex, chiefly because he was very narrowly approaching the truth. “I kept something in my wallet that I would like returned to me. If It’s impossible, it’s impossible, but I would rather exhaust all my options.” 

He can almost hear Ben’s shrug into the phone. “I wish I could help, George. Try getting one of those tracker chips for your next wallet, or waiting until I’m available to get your dirty twink fix.” It’s punctuated by a sharp slap of skin-on-skin and an affronted gasp. George’ll guess boyfriend then, as Ben quickly shoves his goodbye into the same breath as his hangup. 

He sighs and sets his phone back down, rubbing his eyes and resolving to just get up and fix himself something for lunch before beginning the arduous process of fixing this mess. He’s already up when he remembers that little thing that Alex had gotten him, annoyed at George’s latest wallet mishap, he’d grabbed George’s wallet from his hands, shoved the thing little thing into it and handed it back. 

_ “Now, if you lose it, you’ll find it and you won’t have to call me to go looking for it.”  _

Picking his phone back up, he navigates his way to the app Alex had installed, his little flicker of hope dying and his lips curling down into a frown when it informs him that he’s too far from the range of his wallet to track it. George just sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face and electing to walk to his bank instead. 

It’s one of the nicer days, and the fresh air would do him good. He could use the time to clear the thoughts of lithe limbs and red lips from his mind. It doesn’t, of course, and instead that ghost haunts him, the folded little heart a weight in his pocket. 

He takes out cash and cancels all but one of his cards. He isn’t sure why he struggles with the last one, walking home and staring at the option to report it stolen. He could, easily, if just avoid the struggle of later combing through the report to dispute the purchases. But something twisted strangely in his gut when the app alerted him that the card was used at another grocery store in Nolita. It was… comforting, in a way. The knowledge that Gilbert was close, that he wasn’t running off to some far away country with George’s wallet. That he wasn’t going back to France.

The violent lurch of his stomach he attributes to the idea of losing the memento he knows is still folded into his wallet. 

Not at all at the idea of losing Gilbert to a foreign country. 

It only takes a few days for the mail to roll in, and a few minutes after that for George to active his new cards, freeing him from the constraints of operating in cash and Google Pay. A week after that, the bill for his stolen card sweeps in. He stares at it, open on his laptop at his desk, for a long while. Gilbert had been, for the most part, fairly conservative. A majority of the purchases were at familiar stores, delis, and the like. A few more at boutiques, but those were fewer and farther in between, like he wasn’t sure when the line would max out or George would finally close it. 

He stares between the minimum payment and the balance, leaving the tab open as he gets up and contemplates between cooking himself a quiet meal for one and going out for precisely the same thing. He sighs, long and low, as he takes his jacket from the hook and his wallet from the table. 

There’s a place a few blocks from his apartment, nothing extraordinary high-brow, but not drenched in grease either that George frequents more than he would like to admit. He walks there, mulling over the bill in the same way he mulled over the card and mulled over Gilbert and mulled over why he’s so obscenely attached to a man he’s only met once. A man who, in that one original meeting, robbed him. He was never so attached to Alex, or Gilbert, or even his ex-wife. He could forget them long enough to focus on other things, he didn’t let them bog down his spirit until it was dragging the floor. 

Just Gilbert, and certainly it’s foolish to remember the ways his legs curled around George, the way he clung to him like his life depended on it. The way he gasped and purred his name. He nearly misses the entrance he’s so entranced in reliving the sweet memory. 

He sits in the same seat he always does, one of the same few servers he’s had delivering the menu he pretends to contemplate. He asks a few questions about the special, before ordering the same thing he always does. 

He prods at his side salad when it comes, frown deepening around his lips. Gilbert is fresh, he’s new, and now he’s gone. 

George eats half his meal, lets the waiter box up the rest before he pays and leaves and sure enough, the tab is still open there when he returns, staring him down. 

It’s there when he changes, it’s there when he leaves for the gym, desperate to burn off whatever morose loneliness is still sticking to his skin. It’s there when he comes back. It’s there when he takes his late-night shower, cool and efficient, it’s there when he’s out again, changed and ready for bed, his whole apartment dark and cold. He leans over his laptop as he brushes his teeth, dragging the cursor to the  _ Pay Bill  _ option. 

It’s late, and he had two glasses of wine since he came home from the gym and those are his excuses as he clicks  _ Pay Balance.  _

If he’s stealing and whoring himself out, George tells himself, he’s desperate. Benjamin would know if he was working for a service, which means he’s desperate. He’s using it, primarily, for food and what isn’t spent of food is spent at sex shops, which, George supposes, is work. He tells himself this, staring into the mirror as he rinses his mouth and tries to convince himself that if Gilbert is using this card, it means he’s taking less from others. George has enough to spare a bit each month for this kid, he has enough to pay down the card and let Gilbert keep spending.

He can excuse away letting this thief keep stealing his money by telling himself it’s for a good cause, but that’s no excuse for once he climbs into bed. He lays there, on his back, taking up a whole half of his bed, hand slipping down the front of his boxers. 

And if he grunts Gilbert’s name when he comes, it might be the first time in a long while that he’s thankful he’s alone.

 

**_###_ **

 

Alex takes far too many words, once he finds out what George did, to express his displeasure at George’s decision to let Gilbert keep the card. But it’s not like George is handing him cash, or letting him go unfettered. 

He can still shut it off, he can still cut the line. He just...doesn’t. And there’s nothing particularly wrong or foolish about it, at least now how George sees it. Alex, judging by the harshed-whispered yelling, does. He just rolls his eyes, reminds Alexander that he’s still the one signing his paychecks, and sends him off for his coffee, just to remind him what his job is. 

He goes home and doesn’t dream about Gil that night, but he does think of him in the morning, rolling onto his side and staring at the folded heart that he left on his nightstand and scrolling through the notifications on his phone. 

E-mails, updates from his bank on his new cards, updates from Gilbert. Those he reads carefully, eyeing the locations it looks like he's frequented in the past two days. He entertains the idea, if only for an absurd moment, of finding one of them and loitering between the aisles, looking for a glimpse of curled hair and a whiff of coconut.  But that is, even George would admit, categorically insane. 

He couldn't even pass that off as wanting the folded memento from his wallet back, no. 

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday all roll together, tedious and creeping and dripping slower and slower with each tick of the clock clicking slower and slower. 

Ben calls him on Friday. “Did you ever find your little thief?” He asks, sounding half distracted despite the fact he's the one who called. 

George tries not to let annoyance gnaw at his ankles. “No, unfortunately. I doubt I'll ever find him again. Why?” 

“Hmm? Oh, just curious. Small talk before I ask if you were planning on calling me. I'm feeling neglected, George.” 

He tries, and fails, to not roll his eyes. “Are you not exhausted from the previous weekend's festivities.” 

“I was on Monday. I've got Saturday after nine free and I figured since your last lay burned you pretty badly, I would see if you wanted it before I auctioned it off to one of the four lovely not-young-men currently sending me requests.” 

“You called me to set up a date with you?”

“Well you didn’t.” He can hear that little pout on the other side, the kind that Ben uses on waitstaff and bartenders when he really wants that side salad, and he knows it says no substitutions but he’s watching his figure or if there’s any way he can get an extra cherry, it would make his whole night and really even his whole week. Eyelash flutter, eyelash flutter. 

It also, unsurprisingly, works magic on George as well. Usually under the guise of,  _ pretty please do that thing with your fingers that you did before? I know you’re paying me to get you off but please George, it feels so good when you do it.  _

He can hear the pout, and in two seconds, he’s sure he can hear the eyelashes. He hates how much Ben manages to make himself look the picture of pathetic little beagle begging for table scraps. “Fine.”

“You sound so enthused,” Is Ben’s playfully ungrateful reply. “If I’m going to be totally honest, Nathan’s out of town, and I  _ hate  _ taking new clients when he’s not there to come home to. I’m so thankful that I’m booking you for four hours and charging you for two,  _ Virginia75.”  _ He practically coo’s out George’s username for his booking system, and it takes all of George’s well-honed practice of dealing with both Ben and Alex for far longer than anyone should to be charmed instead of annoyed. 

Ben rattles off an address, someplace familiar that George can’t quite place, before he hangs up, leaving the silence to rattle around a little longer. 

He’s known Benjamin for three years now, dropping more money than he cares to calculate into the young man, sometimes for the sex, sometimes just to have someone to sit across a table with, sometimes for someone to sit next to him on the couch and talk. He’s good, for things like that, but George is often acutely aware that Ben has a life outside him.

He has someone waiting for him to come home and as much as George likes to consider Benjamin one of his few friends, it is difficult to divorce the knowledge that he pays Benjamin to listen to him. Saturday comes slowly, and George showers, dresses in one of his nicer suits if just because it feels more like a real date whenever he tries. 

It’ll clear his mind, he tells himself, shake whatever of Gil was clinging to his skin. It’s what he needs, a night not spent ruminating on the weekend before, not spent wishing or thinking or staring at the row of purchases that Gil keeps making in the same three-block radius. It’s a short train and an even shorter walk to the address Ben had given him and it strikes George rather quickly that it’s very near the one he’d met Gil at. 

No, no. He shakes that thought, and ignores the twisting of his gut, as if he were meeting someone here for the very first time. He steps inside, patting his breast pocket to be certain he’s still got Benjamin’s cash on him (all four hours, including tip, regardless of what Ben planned on charging him). 

It’s not crowded, but George can’t readily spot Ben so he orders himself a drink and takes a place near the entrance, somewhere he can eye the elevators as well. It’s not like Ben to waste time renting two rooms, so he assumes that he’ll come from there, fresh off his previous date, worse for wear in terms of exhaustion but certainly ready to sit for a drink or two. 

Ben will order them himself, but George pays, they’ll drink, catch up, excuse themselves upstairs and have sex. George will take as much of his four hours as he can lying there, watching Ben clean himself up, listening to him rant and rave about whatever topic has taken his mind today. 

He’s just raised his glass to his lips, eyes scanning for the familiar face, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks his watch, first, figuring it must be Ben telling him he’s other on his way, there, or going to be late. Any of them deserves a response, so he sets his glass down and slips his phone out.

The only alert tells him:  _ Connected: Your Wallet Tile is Nearby _

At first, he thinks it’s a mistake, snapping his head up and turning his eyes to the crowd once more. But as the night edges on, more people arrive, blurring the edges of groups and conversation and obscuring body after body until George isn’t entirely sure if he’s skimmed over the man or if his phone is lying to him.

His heart finds itself back at his molars, pounding at his throat and spilling bile onto the back of his tongue as his lungs lose the ability to take in air. His organs fail him piece by piece until he spots him. In the distance, lips curled into that same smart little grin, hair combed back from his face and wrapped in a low ponytail. 

He’s there and George can’t breathe. 

Across the bar, Gilbert laughs, head tilting back and lips parting as his hand comes to rest on some strangers shoulders. His feet move, numb and purposeful, taking him closer and closer, dragging along the warpath like quicksand. 

The smile drops from Gil’s lips once he turns, eyes finding George’s from halfway across the bar. The color drains, and he mutters what could be an apology to his company before he whips his head around. And George knows he’s searching for an exit, some way out and he can’t let him get away again. Not when this is most definitely his only chance.

His size helps him push through the throngs of people much easier than Gil can, no longer caring if people find him rude or obnoxious. 

They meet at the back door, Gilbert’s fingers wrapped around the handle as he goes to wrench it open. 

George stops it with his hand, the other wrapping around his thin, delicate wrist. And he wants to be angry. Every part him knows he should be angry, he should be furious. 

But those eyes suck him in, the way his lips part and his breath comes hard and George’s eyes are drawn to them, and he can’t look away.

And he wants to kiss him.

He won’t--he can’t--but he wants to. 

He hadn’t planned for this, in all the mulling over what he could do, what he should do, he never considered that he would, really, sincerely, find him. That he would ever see him again, and everything he’d thought he could say leaves him at once, half-cobbled sentences falling to pieces before they reach his tongue. 

He doesn't let go, either. 

The world keeps turning over and over and over again and it feels like hours before George unwelds his jaw and finds the one thing he can think of to say, as his phone buzzes angrily in his pocket. “I think you have something that belongs to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Brief Summery of Outside Relationships:
> 
> Alex and George have been sleeping together on and off for the past 4 years  
> Alex is engaged to Eliza, they have a sort of open relationship, they've been together for 9 years.  
> George has been paying Ben to sleep with him for 3 years (He's paid out a minimum of probably around/just under 70,000 dollars to Ben over the last 3 years [about 23k a year])  
> Benjamin Tallmadge and Nathan Hale have been together for 7 years, Nathan is fully supportive of Ben's career.


	3. Chapter 3

George’s phone buzzed angrily as Gilbert searched wildly for any sort of response, thus far not even bothering to attempt to wrench his wrist free. George stares and tries to summon rage, tries to let it swallow him bit by bit the way it would in any other similar situation.

But the gentle part of Gilbert’s lips makes it excruciatingly difficult. Even--no,  _ especially  _ when his tongue darts out, wetting them in prelude to a distracted little noise. 

The buzzing stops, and George can no longer hear the steady clink and tin of the bar behind them over the sound of his own heartbeat listing all the reasons that George should just let go. But he doesn’t, because his hand incredibly stubbornly refuses to listen to what his mind is telling it to do, and instead remains welded to that one consistent point of physical contact between the two of them. Gilbert’s skin is warm. Soft. George can feel and feeling it is somehow the worst thing he could possibly be doing at the moment. 

What feels like an hour passes, and eventually, once George’s pocket sounds off another siren call of someone who obviously cannot get the message that George is, at this moment, incredibly busy, Gilbert manages to speak. “Perhaps...you should take that?” And when George doesn’t deign to respond, Gilbert tries, “Je ne parle pas anglais?” 

And, while missing the direct translation, George figures he can extrapolate enough from the ways in which Gilbert shrinks back as he says it, teeth baring a sort of mortified grimace. He gives his wrist a weak little tug, not quite bothering to look so disappointed when George does not immediately relent. 

“Please do not call the police? I will you give it back, I will do whatever--just...please, George.” The pleading in his voice is sweet, and his voice curves desperately over George’s name and George can’t--he can’t… he can’t think of what to say because, for the third goddamn time, his phone is fucking ringing. It shatters his concentration and he shakes his head, sharp and hard. 

“Even if I wanted to, hiring escorts is generally frowned upon. So, even if I should--” at this, Gilbert flinches back, looking thoroughly like a chastised child and not a thief “I won’t.” 

Those big eyes get bigger, widening indescribably as George’s point sinks in. With his free hand, Gilbert immediately goes to his pockets and--for a moment, George doesn’t recognize the brown leather tri-fold he extracts. “Take it back, I only used the one card--only a few times. And the cash, and I cut apart your license--that’s it, I swear. I...looked at the photograph. Once or twice, but I returned it.”

George takes his wallet with his unoccupied hand, flicking it open. Sure enough, in place of his own license was some identification card that George doesn’t really recognize, maybe some kind of passport of French identification card.

“Marie-Joseph Paul Yves--this is your name?” The French feels weird, clunky on his tongue and he’s certain it would sound more beautiful rolling off the tongue of the man in front of him--but Gilbert, or Marie, or Joseph, or Paul, or Yves or whatever his name is doesn't correct his pronunciation. 

Instead he just nods and hangs his head, mumbling, “My friends call me Lafayette.” Those obscenely expressive eyes peer back up at him through thick lashes, glossy and damp. “Is there something I can do, to thank you for not calling the police?” 

George’s tongue is too thick and dry to respond, so he doesn’t. He just clenches his fingers around his wallet and tries to puzzle together some kind of reply, something sane, something that won’t lead him to a place he’ll certainly regret later. He drops Gilbert’s wrist, and the boy doesn’t sprint, he doesn’t shove past him and take off out the door. 

Part of George wants to believe it’s because he doesn’t want to, but it’s just as likely it’s because George is holding his ID. The cards he cancelled are tucked in the back, likely because they didn’t work, but the one he left open, the one he idiotically paid off, is sitting bright and shiny in the front. There’s another card tucked in behind his own, of course without either of their names on it. George makes a decision to just shred that too and be done with this whole business. 

A quick check confirms that his wallet’s been voided of all the cash he had on him, unsurprisingly, but sure enough, tucked behind the card holders, the same place Alex shoved the tile once he got it for him, was a worn down square. George unfolds the polaroid carefully.

There’s four thick lines worn through it, but he can still make out the image of two young men leaning against the hood of a 1987 Firebird. The photo bleached it out to a sickly half-green, wearing away at the careful glossy paint job the two boys in the image had rounded off a summer by perfecting. George carefully folded it down and slipped it back in. 

“The older one is handsome,” Gilbert says, and George swallows down that pit. “Is it you?”

“It’s my brother.” George measures his tone, wriggling out Gilbert’s ID and folding the wallet shut again. 

Gilbert offers him a weak smile, rubbing the wrist George had snatched. “Perhaps I seduced the wrong brother, he looked striking.” 

“He’s dead.” George informs him, as perfunctory and flatly as if he’d just said Lawrence lives in Maryland. Gilbert’s mouth snaps shut with a little click. He rubs his wrist a few more times and grimaces. He shoves the wallet and his thiefs ID back into his pocket and looks over the foreign card in his hand. 

“What do these letters in front of your name mean?” He asks, a curious thumb roving over the curiously long name.

“Marquis. I come from a long line of French nobility. Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette is...an appropriate shortened version of my name and title.” 

Marquis? George stares up from the card, drinking in the sight of this man--this  _ boy-- _ half-crumpled before him. The same one who, not that long ago, splayed himself across a bed, let George ram into him for cash. “You’re French nobility?” He asks, slow, careful, so both of them can clearly understand. 

Gilbert shrugs, looking properly juvenile. “Nobility is not...it…” He moves from rubbing his wrist to rubbing a shoulder. “Yes.”

The question nags at George, so, rather than skirting around the topic, he takes aim directly at it. “So why the prostitution? The stealing?”

Gilbert licks his lips, shoulders hunching slightly. George sneaks a glance down at the ID, he may look older when he carries himself high and powerful, but he does a triple-take down at the birthday. Barely twenty. He shouldn’t even be in a place like this. “My family cut me off,” Gilbert tells George’s shoes, his voice barely audible. “I was not supposed to be in America. I lied and said I was spending a weekend in England and I came here instead. I have nothing.” He looks up, voice gaining in strength and desperation as his gaze catches on George’s. “I had to do something for money, and I am  _ good  _ at that, aren’t I? You enjoyed yourself, George, you loved it when you fucked me, I could tell.” 

George doesn’t flinch back when Gilbert’s hand settles on his chest, when those long, delicate, fingers curve over the lapel of his jacket. “Please,” Gilbert barrels on, “let me make it up to you, let me pay you back for what I stole. We can consider it even, and then you will never have to see me again.” 

The desperation drips from every syllable, it’s thick and pandering and from anyone else George would think it revoltingly pathetic. But Gilbert uses his grip to heave himself up onto his toes and press his lips against George’s. Gilbert kisses him like he needs him, and George knows he’s lost the moment he grapples for his sides and doesn’t shove him away. Instead, he holds him right in place and presses back into the embrace. 

“Take me out back,” Gilbert whispers, hot and heavy against George’s lips. “Let me make us even.”

And how can George say no to that? How can he resist the personification of every last filthy, debauched dream that’s been haunting him for the past week? How can he resist the living form of every exhausted fantasy that’s taken him by the core? He steps back, and Gilbert slides through the door, out to the alley behind the hotel bar. 

George expects him to be gone by the time he follows, but he’s not. Gilbert waits for him, he drags George down to kiss him again. It goes fast, every movement as frantic as the last. Gilbert pulls him back, until George’s hands are scraping against the rough brick, Gilbert hiking a leg around his hip--moving almost superhumanly fluid in those skin-tight jeans. Gilbert’s fingers, slender and deft and perfect, undoing George’s belt as he pants into the crook of his throat. 

He pulls George along, yanking him with every step and he tries to keep up but the flurry of skin and touch and clothes is so easy to get lost in. Gilbert’s already stroking him, working on getting him hard, by the time George can even fumble for Gilbert’s own pants. 

Gilbert swats them away, though, just pushes George back and drops to his knees. And it’s like everything snaps back, what was hurried and rushed, like jamming fast-forward fifteen times, turns slow, dripping, aching. Lips drag up the shaft of his cock, warm hand still fisting the base. “Let me make it wet, monsieur,” he purrs, batting those perfect doe eyes back up at George. “Get you slick,” he pauses, dragging his tongue over the head and George’s knees almost buckle. “Have you between my thighs.” 

Now that is an appealing image. Gilbert is good with his mouth, traces his tongue from base to head and back again, drags his lips with sucking kisses all the way down to his balls--George has to brace himself with one hand on the wall in front of him, the other cupping the back of Gilbert’s head. He only takes him into his mouth for a second, and, logically, George knows it’s for the best. No way he would have lasted much longer like that, trying his best not to gawk down at the man between his legs. 

He shimmies his jeans and underwear down to his knees in one go, and turns, bracing his forearms on the wall and jutting his ass out, thighs pressed tight together. George slides against the warm cleft he creates once, then twice, before stroking over the rise of his ass.

“I want to look at you,” it falls from his lips before he can even processes that he’s saying it. Gil freezes, for just a moment, back taut with some emotion George can’t recognize without seeing his face and Hell, he isn’t even sure he would be able to  _ if  _ he did see his face. But he acquises nonetheless, flipping around and letting George pick him up and pin him between himself and the cold wall behind them. He gets his hands under his ass, palming each cheek as Gilbert’s knees practically to his chin. George folds him and pushes him in place and presses between those warm, soft, thighs. 

It isn’t long enough, but George’s body apparently has other ideas than staying there gripping onto this young, beautiful, man for hours. He ruts against him, panting hard and hot against Gilbert’s knees. “Can you reach yourself?” He ask, as his end starts to clip at the base of his spine. Gilbert fumbles, wriggling his hand to get himself off as George’s cock slides again and again just under his balls and nudging up at the underside of Gilbert’s cock. It’s hot and sweet and not slick enough and not tight enough but it’s good, it’s good and it’s here and it’s Gilbert and that’s all the matters.

He doesn’t know when Gilbert comes, but once George finishes, he’s absolutely filthy. It clings to his cockhead, smears between his thighs and stains the bottom of his shirt. George drinks it in when he sets him down. 

Gilbert’s nose wrinkles as he yanks his pants up to his thighs but not on. 

George clears his throat. “I don’t have anything to… would you like me to run inside for a napkin?” 

The offer is refuted with a short little head shake. “I think I have--” he cuts himself off as he rummages in pockets that George swears can’t hold anything. But sure enough, Gilbert comes out with a napkin. “A gentleman bought me a drink and left me with this.” He goes about cleaning himself up as best he can, but George still winces a little at the filth left behind. “Luckily, I doubt I will be finding his number useful.” 

Gilbert gets what looks like most of up before wadding the napkin up and tossing it aside. He then yanks up his pants and George quickly tucks his now-soft cock away, ignoring how filthy he feels in sympathy for how Gilbert must be feeling right now. 

Across from him, Gilbert sniffs and rubs his wrist--the one George had been grabbing, he realizes with a sharp, bitter, pang of guilt. “If it is possible,” he starts, slowly. “Could I have my ID back? You won’t call the police now, right?”

“I wasn’t going to before,” George reminds him, almost unintentionally sharp as it finally sets in that  _ this  _ is what that was for. He almost shoots back  _ I’m not a terrible person,  _ but honestly George would have a difficult time with that lie right about now. So he doesn’t, instead he just feels for the plastic card in his pocket and mulls it over. This kid is all alone here, selling himself to strangers for cash and then stealing from them. “You are aware that what you do fails to not only be dangerous, but stupid as well, yes?” 

Gilbert’s lips pull down tight. “I have been doing this for a few years, it has yet to backfire.”

“You could end up with the wrong client, or  _ steal  _ from the wrong client,” George points out and now, Gilbert’s frown doesn’t look so much chastised, but instead almost petulant. 

He jerks his nose up just a touch. “I have finer taste in men than that and I have yet to be caught.”

“I caught you,” George points out, and that tough-jut nose sinks just a minute inch. 

But eventually Gilbert circles around to his main argument, a point that George finds difficult to contend with. “I do not have any other options. I told you, George, I am good at this.”

“There might be a way I can help you,” George says and if Alex find out, he will never hear the end of it. He slides Gilbert’s ID from his pocket, holding it between his two fingers. The kid needs money. George will just be doing it to keep him safe. Away from someone who might hurt him. “I’ll hold onto this until we have a chance to discuss it further.” 

He gets Gilbert’s number after a small amount more cajoling, and sees him off into the night. And once he turns around the corner, George finds himself very suddenly in a very desperate need for a drink. He slides back into the bar, only sitting down when he remembers that his phone had been ringing like crazy just a little while before. 

He slides it out and--oh fuck him. Four missed calls and two voicemails from Ben. Who he was supposed to meet here. An hour ago.

That is, in fact, bad. 

The first voicemail isn’t that bad.  _ Hey, it’s Ben, I’m here, I’m at the bar--where the hell are you? Let me know when you get this, I’m gonna finish this drink then I’m leaving so you better hurry.” _

The second, not so much. George winces immediately at the cutting sharpness that manages to snap out from his phone.  _ Hey, asshole, you stood me up. Normally this is the kind of shit that gets you blacklisted, so you better have a  _ damn  _ good reason for doing so. Call me back, or fucking don’t--or you know what, actually do because you still owe me.  _

He checks the time of the last call as he gets off the stool and starts out. Only a few minutes ago. He clicks callback and pins his phone to his ear with his shoulder as he pushes his way through the door. 

Ben picks up on the first ring. “You stood me up.”

“I think it’s fair to say I did not intend on doing that.” George casts a glance in either direction, but doesn’t start walking.

“You  _ stood me up,”  _ Ben repeats. “I’ll have you know I haven’t been stood up since eighth grade.”

“Are you far?” He asks.

Ben answers more readily than George expected. “A few blocks down. You’re like a quarter through your time and I’m not coming back. In case you forgot, you stood me up--which, in addition how hurt it makes me, is actually against the rules.”

George pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “I’ll meet you, explain, and buy you dinner.”

“And pay me.”

“And pay you.”

Ben hangs up shortly after, and sure enough, George spots him leaning against some closed-up storefront. He’s easy to spot, given that he’s always commanded George’s attention whenever he’s around. A little on the taller side, he’s lean and sharp with handsome features. Blonde hair just a little too long, he brushes it back before bringing his fingers back to pick at his nails. He’s almost addictively gorgeous, even with his shoulders bunched up by his ears. Of course, that’s either because of the slight chill or because George actually hurt him, he can never quite tell. “There’s a kebab truck I pass on my way home from here,” Ben grumbles, once George is within grumbling-at distance.  “I’m usually too tired or sore to stop but it alway smells good.”

George gestures in what he hopes is a sort of  _ lead the way  _ type gesture. And, apparently, Ben gets it, because he does. His hand shove into his pockets. “Not too sore tonight? Thought you had a date before me.”

“I did. Quick job, small cock, way too into calling me a whore, and a shitty tipper to boot. So what happened to you? You look disheveled.” 

If Alex would lay into him once he finds out, Ben most certainly is going to right now. George debates not telling him, but judging by the thick and angry silence that hangs between them, not telling him would probably infuriate him more than actually telling him. “Gilbert, the thief who stole my wallet, was at the bar.”

Ben whistles, not the sort of response that George was expecting, but at least it wasn’t the sort that Alex would certainly give him. Which would be more akin to an exasperated rage than anything else. “You’re forgiven for bailing on me. What did you do?”

“I got my wallet back and he offered to repay me for the damages. Then we proceeded into the alley.” 

This time, Ben stops dead in his tracks, the kebab truck on the corner in the distance reminding George that he hasn’t actually eaten tonight. He was planning on ordering room service for the two of them after their liaison and now that he hasn’t, he’s hungry. Ben will follow if George keeps walking, he knows that much. He eyes the truck before shuffling his feet and waiting for Ben to say something instead.

“Seriously?” Is what comes next. “Are you okay, George? This is,” he breaks to pinch the bridge of his nose, sighing and squeezing his eyes shut. “More reckless than I expect from you.”

“I enjoy him.” George grits his teeth, clenching his jaw against the burst of annoyance that creeps up under his skin at the needling. “I have his ID now as well, and his phone number so that I can get in contact with him tomorrow. It is not my place to disclose what he told me, but the more I know about him, the more compelled I feel to make sure that he’s helped. I would do the same for you, if you were in such a position, Benjamin.”

Ben breathes a measured breath. “I’m hungry, so can we just eat?”

They make it to the stand, leaning against the wall of a closed up storefront to nibble at their respective sticks once George hands over a wad of cash and they get their food. It’s relatively quiet, but George can feel Ben’s cogs turning, can feel the way he mulls things over in that too-sharp mind. 

He’s halfway through, stopping to wipe grease from his lips (it’s likely absurd that George still finds him achingly gorgeous like this, moreso, maybe) and asks, “So what are you going to do? Reform this thief?”

George shrugs, wadding up his own grease stained napkin. “It is not my business to  _ reform  _ him. I simply want to help him. He needs my help.”

“He’s a  _ thief,  _ George. He stole from you, you have to remember that, right? It was a week ago, you called.”

George’s appetite leaves him and he lets his head rest back against the brick. “Believe me, Benjamin, I am more than aware. I feel somewhat responsible for him, in a way. I’m going to call him tomorrow, see if I can meet with him to discuss some sort of deal.”

“George if you’re looking to be a sugar daddy, there’s websites for that.” Ben offers, trashing the remains of his dinner. 

George doesn’t dignify that with a response. He pays Ben, when he’s sure no one’s looking and apologizes once again for standing him up. “Next weekend, after or before a date--allow me to buy you dinner in recompense.” 

Ben just pats his elbow, “It’s no big deal, George. Just don’t do anything stupid, okay? Forget the kid and move on. Don’t try to be somebodies white knight, it’s not as classy as you think it is.”

He turns home, and George does the same--two of them parting there. He thinks about Gilbert all the way to his bedroom. He thinks about him as he undresses, as he brushes his teeth, as he crawls into bed and stares at his phone. 

It finds its way into his fingers and he hopes to God that when he sends the brief text outlining the time and place, that Gilbert is on the other end. 

He’s about to drift back to sleep when his phone buzzes from its charging cradle. 

_ “See you then. -- Gil.” _

**Author's Note:**

> As per usual, I can be found on [ tumblr](tooeasilyconsidered.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/hipsteroric)


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